{"id":39276,"date":"2023-08-26T00:01:07","date_gmt":"2023-08-26T07:01:07","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/barbarafalconernewhall.com\/?p=39276"},"modified":"2026-06-06T04:49:25","modified_gmt":"2026-06-06T04:49:25","slug":"im-a-widow-was-this-guy-asking-me-for-a-date","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/im-a-widow-was-this-guy-asking-me-for-a-date\/","title":{"rendered":"I’m a Widow. Was This Guy Asking Me for a Date?"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"I'm-a-widow-was-this-guy-asking-me-for-a-date<\/a>
We shared a sidewalk and some chatter. Then I thought, I’m a widow. Was this guy asking me for a date? Photo by Barbara Newhall<\/em><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

He was an old guy. He was out for a walk with a squatty, brindled dog. He was ahead of me on the sidewalk, and from behind I could see that he had steel gray hair and a spine more advanced in its kyphosis than mine. Older than me, I concluded, and slower. I soon caught up with him and the dog.<\/p>\n

Since I rarely pass up a chance to make human contact these days, deprived as I’ve been of it ever since Jon died, I broke the ice by saying hello to the squatty dog. Soon the old guy and I were chatting. I got the feeling that he was as much in need of human contact as I. A widower, perhaps.<\/p>\n

“You know that Colonial Donuts, the one up in the village?” he said as I started to walk on.<\/p>\n

Coffee and Donuts?<\/strong><\/h5>\n

I did know that place. I’d never been inside. I’ve always assumed its donuts to be sugary and its coffee watery. A place that skimps on the spelling of its doughnuts, I reasoned, was probably\u00a0 skimping on its doughnut ingredients.<\/p>\n

“Sure,” I said. “It’s right there in the village.”<\/p>\n

“Come join us. We’re there every morning. Nine to ten.”<\/p>\n

“Nine ‘o clock. I’m barely awake by then,” I said.<\/p>\n

“That’s OK. You can be late. Nobody cares.”<\/p>\n

I’m a Widow. Was This Guy Asking Me for a Date?<\/strong><\/h5>\n

Was this guy asking me for a date? Is this what a date looks when you’re 81 and the guy is pushing 90? Coffee at Colonial Donuts with him and his oldster friends?<\/p>\n

If Jon were here, I wouldn’t think of taking this man up on his offer. That would be cheating on my husband. Not quite cheating, but something in that psychic neighborhood.<\/p>\n

\"I'm-a-widow-was-this-guy-asking-me-for-a-date<\/a>
Donuts on offer at Colonial Donuts.\u00a0 Not on my training table, but maybe the company is good at my local shop.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

But Jon was no more. He wasn’t here to be cheated on. So I found myself feeling, weirdly, like I was being asked for a date — and considering accepting.<\/p>\n

I haven’t been asked on a date in fifty-plus years. Not even from Jon. With Jon, it was mostly me who did the asking.<\/p>\n

But standing on the sidewalk with this nice old guy, I felt my long-forgotten, single woman habits kicking in, like muscle memory. Do I want to pursue this? Do I want to be pursued?<\/p>\n

No. This guy was too old for me. Too slow a walker. And I’m allergic to dogs.<\/p>\n

After Jon died I assumed that my companions from then on in would be women. And that was okay with me. Women are good company. Fun.<\/p>\n

And my women friends like to do the things I like to do — hike in the woods, go to art museums, talk about books, talk about writing, talk about kids, talk. I figured I wouldn’t be needing a man or men, singular or plural, from then on in.<\/p>\n

But the old guy and his squatty dog woke something up in my grief-weary brain. Men are different, I recalled. Men are not women. Something happens when you are standing on the sidewalk talking with a man, one with an easy manner and friendly eyes. Something that doesn’t happen with a woman.<\/p>\n

I don’t know what that something is. And I’m not ready to find out.<\/p>\n

Ask me again next year.<\/p>\n

Note: I’ve gotten some interesting feedback from friends since posting this essay. Apparently, kaffeeklatsches like the one described by the man with the squatty dog are a thing. Lots of single old people gather in mixed groups, men and women, on a regular basis for conversation and companionship. It seems I have been introduced to an entirely new (for me) American subculture, and old single people are now my peops. Whaddya know.<\/em><\/p>\n

More about Jon at “Will Our Kids Grow Up to Be Cheaters?<\/a>”\u00a0 Also, “My Computer Is Dead. Long Live My Omputer.”<\/a><\/em>\u00a0 And for sure don’t miss this one: “It’s Jon the Old Guy I Miss the Most.”<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

\"I'm-a-widow-was-this-guy-asking-me-for-a-date<\/a>
My neighborhood Colonial Donuts — the perfect rendezvous for a date with an old guy?<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\"<\/a><\/p>\n

It was just a friendly chat with a stranger out walking his dog. But then I thought, “I’m a widow. Was this guy asking me for a date?”\u00a0 Read more.<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":48908,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[14],"tags":[103,2751,2752,1619,34,29,363,2753,82,2754],"class_list":["post-39276","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-widowed","tag-aging","tag-colonial-donuts","tag-dating","tag-dogs","tag-dont-miss","tag-jon","tag-men","tag-old-people","tag-on-the-funny-side","tag-walking"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/39276","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=39276"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/39276\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":48912,"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/39276\/revisions\/48912"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/48908"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=39276"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=39276"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=39276"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}